The Nature of Sin
by JBSlarti
Summary: In this place, I am not unique because of my mutation I am unique because of my faith. Featuring Nightcrawler and Storm.
1. Prologue

_The Nature of Sin: Prologue  
AN: Still unfinished, this was written in 2003 for the now-defunct Faith and Anger archive._

* * *

They think I am a fanatic.

It's amazing; in this place, I am not unique because of my mutation -- I am unique because of my faith. I can see it in their eyes. So polite, yet so unwilling to look directly at me because all they see are the scars.

It frightens them that someone could be so obsessed with sin that they would etch it into their flesh. Though they smile at me and try to talk about the weather, their thoughts always stray to the swirls of raised tissue and their words falter. It would do no good to tell them I carved them long ago, before I knew what true sin was.

They think I can't sleep so often at night because I'm tortured by my sins. I pity them that. These people, these X-Men, are good people, and kind, but as bigoted in their own way as those at home who looked at me and crossed themselves and muttered incantations against demons.

What if I told them my dreams are filled with is a priest's voice? Father Whitney, a good Irish Catholic come to minister to the Bavarian masses, had seemed so sincere when he took me under his wing.

My adopted circus family didn't share my fascination with the Catholic church, and so my Catholicism was a bastard child of Scripture and folklore. Father Whitney changed that. He told me I shouldn't profane my body with these scars, for the Bible forbid self-mutilation. He taught me the Hail Mary and the Our Father. He gave me my first rosary.

I trusted that man, though I knew he liked the bottle a bit too much. I trusted him implicitly, and that was my first true test of faith.

Ten years later I still feel the ropes cutting into my wrists, holding me to the pew... the cold metal of the cross pressed against my forehead... still hear his lilting voice slurring out the Rite of Exorcism...


	2. Chapter One

_Chapter One_

* * *

The halls seemed so empty to Ororo Munroe. The mansion repairs were almost complete and most of the students had returned, save those whose parents pulled them after the raid, but something was missing. Something more than Jean.

She heard a faint laugh, distant and echoing. She froze, suppressing a shudder. Had her thoughts summoned her friend? She shook herself for a fool -- she had been far too maudlin of late. The laugh repeated itself.

_Maybe it is spirits_, she thought, her lips quirking in a bitter smile. She descended the staircase, turning the corner into the students' dining room. _Or maybe it's lunch_.

The room was filled with the children of Xavier. Students old and young jostled each other in line for food or shouted merrily across the tables set up every day for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

Rogue and Bobby still sat with the younger children for meals, unwilling to make the jump to sitting with the adults even though they now were technically part of the team.

Ororo passed by them on her way to retrieve a tray, smiling at the youngsters and giving Rogue a gentle squeeze on her shoulder. She picked up a snippet of conversation from a table behind her. Not meaning to intrude, she started to continue until she heard one of the boys say "blue freaky guy."

"...he's like a ghost, I tell you. You only see him at night and then he disappears. He may well be the demon of the Book."

"Oh, you know that's not true. Just shut up," a female voice replied, bored with it all.

"I bet you he hangs upside down in his closet to sleep, just like a bat-"

The boy cut off mid-sentence, his fingers curled into two-pronged hooks, as Ororo's piercing eyes bored into his own. He dropped his hands and offered a weak grin.

"Roberto," Ororo began, automatically switching to what Jean had always jokingly called "the teacher voice." "I hope you are not talking about who I think you are."

"No, Ms. Munroe... well, yes, but... only because he is creepy." His voice trailed off as Ororo's eyebrows climbed.

"You will write a 1,000 word essay on racism for me -- by Monday," she raised a hand to stop his protest. "By Monday. You are a mutant, Sunspot," she felt no satisfaction at his wince, "and should not be saying such things about anyone, especially another mutant."

She gazed at him a moment longer before sweeping her eyes across the other children at the table. They were suddenly very engrossed in their carrot sticks. Satisfied, she continued on to her own lunch.

She settled at the adult table next to Logan with her tray, feeling no desire to eat her salad. Logan wrinkled his nose at her in way of greeting as he chewed on a massive cheeseburger. She was thankful he swallowed before speaking.

"A thousand words, eh?" His eyebrows arched. "He's just being a kid."

It figured he had heard the whole exchange. She sighed. "I know, Logan, but he shouldn't be saying such things."

Logan shrugged his reply, taking another bite of his burger. She picked at her salad, listening to him chew. He washed his bite down with a swig of soda before taking her silence as invitation to continue.

"You know, that German guy ­- Kurt ­- does act a little odd. He was down here before the kids, snatched some food, looked at me looking at him and 'whooshed.'" He wriggled his fingers to illustrate Kurt's teleportation.

Ororo couldn't help but smile. The Wolverine was trying to cheer her up. "It's 'bamf,' not 'whoosh.'"

"Come again?"

She shrugged, now completely taken with Logan's puzzled expression. "I think it sounds like that, so that's what I've starting calling it. He just 'bamfs' away when he's shy."

Logan snorted. "Well, whatever you call it, it still stinks."

Ororo shook her head in mock disgust and turned her attention to her salad.

A half-hour later, with lunch safely over, Ororo started up the stairs. She needed some time alone to think. And her plants needed love and water.


	3. Chapter Two

_Chapter Two_

* * *

Kurt moved slowly through the attic, marveling at the variety of plants along every wall, hanging from every rafter, covering every surface. Some still bore broken branches and crushed leaves, lingering evidence of the raid on the mansion, he supposed.

He took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of the hundreds of plants and flowers. Beautiful. In all the expansive attic he found only one window not filled with plants. It faced eastward, and pillar candles of every size and color lined the window seat. A single, elegant sea shell was placed in the center of the seat and rich earth-colored rugs kept whoever meditated there from the chill wood floor.

He ran a finger along the edge of the shell, a faint smile on his lips as he thought of home.

"It is abalone," said a clear, feminine voice directly behind him.

Kurt spun in a panic, one hand clutching his rosary and the other thrown in front of him as if to ward off an attack. Ororo's eyes widened and she stepped back. "I'm sorry, Kurt, I didn't mean to startle you."

He blinked and swallowed visibly, his hands finding his pockets. "Nein, no, I is he who should be being sorry." Ororo's head cocked and he took a deep breath, cursing his English and tendency to talk fast when nervous. "I did not mean to intrude. This is your place then, yes?

"This is my greenhouse, of sorts." She smiled enigmatically. "Greenhouse, sanctuary, it is many things to me, but you are welcome here." She frowned slightly. "Though I wish I had known you wanted to see it."

"I did not know it was here," he replied softly, suddenly afraid to look her in the eyes. "I found it while, um, wandering, and I was curious." He pulled a hand from his pocket and fingered the scar on his chin with a nervous thumb.

"Ah, then I understand." Her eyes scanned his face, his downcast eyes giving her a chance to really look at him. The scars whirled across his flesh, accenting his already strong features. "Curiosity should always be indulged."

He looked up at that. "You think so?"

"Absolutely." She smiled. "I'm curious why you keep to yourself. Do we disturb you?"

"No, no, nothing like that." He indicated himself with a graceful flourish of his hand and self-depreciating smile. "I'm accustomed to keeping to the shadows, if you get my meaning." That wasn't the truth, precisely, but it was all he was willing to say for now.

She took a step toward him, Roberto's innocent, but cutting words at lunch ringing in her ears. "You shouldn't feel that way," she murmured, her eyes suddenly full of sympathy.

"I suppose you're right," he said softly. Sympathy wasn't what he wanted, but she was a beautiful woman... and so near. He felt his heart quicken, wondering if she was as understanding as she was beautiful. And then she took his hand.

"Not here, not anywhere," she said, her thumb tracing the whirls on the back of his hand.

He recoiled. The scars again. Always back to the scars. "I sh-should go," he stuttered slightly, stepping back from her hand and disappearing in a puff of acrid smoke.

Ororo let her hand drop to her side, her palm slapping her thigh with a loud snap. Shaking her head, she turned her attention to her plants, stilling her inner voice's clamoring to go look for him.


	4. Interlude: The First Scar

_Interlude One: The First Scar_

* * *

The first scar came of its own accord. I was running through Der Jermarkt's camp ­- running away from my step-brother Stefan. I had eaten his last bit of taffy, and he was furious.

I had denied it, lying with the remnants of the candy still stuck to my back teeth. And then I ran, with Stefan on my heels. I ran until my side ached; twisting around startled performers and in and out of tents and between wagons.

We ran until he was no longer angry, or I afraid. Now, we were laughing as we ran for the sheer joy of movement and the discovery of a new game.

The pain, when it came, was brilliant. I hadn't seen the guy wire in my eight-year-old's ecstasy. Powered by my speed on impact, it tore through my pants, through my skin and almost to the bone.

Stefan screamed for help, raising half the circus, and my howls raised the other half. Soon we were surrounded by a crowd of curious friends. One of the elder trapeze artists came to my side, cutting my pant leg off with a pocket knife and pressing the cloth to the bleeding wound.

Our Mutter, Margoli, pushed through the press of onlookers and took us home to our trailer. She banished Stefan outdoors and turned her attention to me. The angry cut snaked across my shin, climbing over my knee and trailing off on my thigh. She stitched it herself.

"You should not lie, this is what comes of it," she said, surprising me with her mother's telepathy. The guilt I had buried over eating the candy washed over me and I suddenly felt sick. Stinging tears welled up in my eyes.

She noticed my tears and her expression softened. "No, don't cry," she whispered, brushing the tears from my cheeks. "Crying does no good now. Just learn from it. You will wear this mark for life, son, let it be a reminder to you."

I simply nodded. And remembered.


End file.
